Here Comes!

My Little Guy was not fond of the beach last year.  He was but a babe of eighteen months, and was deeply unhappy about the sand that wormed its way into every crack and crevice on his pudgy self.

But this year?

Things were different, my friends.  This year, he thrust his paw at me, beckoning me to walk him closer to the water's edge.  Beckoning is too sedate a word, actually.  It was more grunty and commanding, kind of what you'd expect from Conan the Barbarian.  All he was missing was the toothy fur pelt.  Since I always respect the commands of a barbarian, I took his hand in mine, and we stepped up to the ocean. 

As the surf began to curl in the distance, he'd look up at me, beaming, and announce, "Here comes!"  The waves would break, usually knocking my whippet-thin 8-year-old son and sparkling blond 5-year-old girl helter-skelter.  By the time the water reached us, it just kissed our toes.  At most, it would slink around our ankles.  Either way, Little Guy would thrill and dance and giggle, then tug me closer to the deep.

Next year, I'm going to have to put a leash on him.

My Husband and I Had Very Different Weeks

Many moons ago, a lovely friend of mine invited us to the beach for a week.  She and her husband have a place nestled within the sands of Delaware, and she practically lives there during the summer.  My husband and I love going to the shore, as do our children, so accepting was kind of a no-brainer.  Honestly, this invitation was a godsend because otherwise, we wouldn't have been able to get to the beach for more than a day trip this year (I know, I know, First World problems).

The truth is, money is thin on the ground for us.  Not in a destitution kind of way, but in a we-are-trying-to-live-within-our-means kind of way.  In a we-are-socking-away-as-much-as-we-can-for-retirement way.  In a Jesus-Christ-organic-milk-is-expensive way.  In an oh-God-at-this-rate-the-kids-will-be-able-to-afford-college-textbooks-but-not-tuition way.  I could go on, but what it comes down to is that we've got a decent-sized mortgage, two car payments, and three children, two of whom are in full-time daycare.  Our liquid savings is kind of a trickle.

All this means that a rent-free beach trip is hard to pass up.  My husband, however, did not have much vacation leave banked, so we decided that we would all go to the shore, he'd leave Sunday night to be at home for the work week, and then he'd come back for the second weekend.

The Friday we were to leave, he called me to say that we'd be taking my car because his check engine light came on.  Herm.  He hates my car.  He loves his car.  It must be serious, I thought, if he is proclaiming that we take the Mazda 5 over the Freestyle and all of its luscious elbow room.

We got home, packed up my car, and zipped over to Bethany Beach.  Yay for the beach!  Boo for the cloud of car trouble.  The plan was that he would return on Monday, drop the car at the closest Ford dealer's service shop, then get a ride back to my house to take my car to work.  Easy-peasy.  But then the dealer called.

And started using unfortunate words.

Words like:

• Transmission;
• Not in production anymore;
• New parts only;
• Six thousand dollars.

Gulp.  Urp.

We can barely afford a six hundred dollar repair, much less a six thousand dollar one.  That's more than we owe on the car.  Not by much, but still.  So, my husband drove home, finagled a ride from my friend, then slowly drove the won't-go-more-than-50-mph beloved auto to another dealer for a second opinion.  The second opinion matched the first one.

More gulping and urping.

Now, the plan is to get the car to my brother, who is a mechanic, to see if he might be able to scoop up parts from the junkyard and possibly rebuild the transmission.  That would likely be a bunch cheaper because a brand new transmission is pricey.  My father has loaned us his spare car in the mean time, allowing us to both get to work.  Our choices right now are:

(1) have the dealer replace the transmission (and continue the next 11 car payments);
(2) see if my brother's shop can rebuild the transmission, and hope it's cheaper  (plus the remaining  car payments);
(3) trade in the car, get very little in the way of trade-in value, roll over what we currently owe to a new car payment, but buy a lesser car so that our monthly payment doesn't exceed what it does now.

The problem with the repairs is that there isn't a guarantee that we won't go through this again.  The problem with rolling the payment into a new car is that we were SO CLOSE to being done with car payments on this vehicle.  Seriously, we have less than a year to go.  I hate the idea of extending that another four or five years.  Also, did I mention how much my husband loves his car?  And that they don't make Ford Freestyles (or Taurus X, as they were briefly rechristened) anymore?

I hate problems that don't have a good solution.  Gar.

So, while he was dealing with all of that, I was mostly making sure that my toddler didn't gt swept out to sea, as he has fallen in love with the ocean.  I had the better week, to be sure.

Diet Math

To lose one pound, you have to burn 3,000 calories.  Did you know that?  I didn't know that.  So, if you learn nothing else from this blog, you've learned that. 

You're welcome.

That is the only fact you'll find here, though.  The rest of this post comprises formulas and interpretations of my own devising.  Don't like math?  Do you tell people that you're 'not a math person'?

Tangent time!

One of my former co-workers said that the only reason that math achievement lags behind literacy rates in the U.S. is because it's socially acceptable to declare oneself 'afraid of math.'  When's the last time you heard a person say, "I'm not really a words person. I don't read that well."

You might hear that in some inspirational flick that is meant to show us the error of willful ignorance. The character arc would be the epiphany that 'tis noble to seek a skill that helps you navigate, nay, enjoy the world.

Anyway, if it was clear that that the reading-challenged person was joking, you would probably erupt with pity, wouldn't you?  You wouldn't say, "Ah, that's okay. You don't really need to know how to read."

Tangent done.

Now, please enjoy my own personal eating/exercise math formulas:

1) Actual body weight = whatever the scale tells you - clothes/shoes weight (duh) - hair weight (substantial for some of us) - breast weight (unless you're a dude).  Breast weight should never count as a problem.  Or so most men will tell you.

2) 40 minutes on the elliptical at level 5 = I can have 2 glasses of Shiraz tonight AND bread.

3) Scissor Sisters' 'Magic Hour' = activates some kind of quantum physics (or magic, take your pick) that makes time go by faster when in the gym.

4) 64 ounces of water = 1 million trips to the ladies' room.

5) An hour of yoga = 4 more muscles I didn't know I had.  How is that possible every time?

Honestly, I use more algebra at the gym now than I did in 1989, when it COUNTED FOR A GRADE. Sorry, Mrs. Saunders, but it's true.  Though, if the sample problems in Algebra II referenced diet and exercise, I probably would've been equally disenchanted.

Thank you for tolerating this; I promise, Gentle Reader, my next post will not have anything to do with diet, exercise, or lists.  It will be something equally, ahem, fascinating, I'm sure.

Birthday Do-Over

I am hereby postponing my birthday.  Which was a few days ago.  I am retroactively post-poning my birthday.

So there, Dr. Who.

Anyway, my birthday mostly stunk on ice.  I am not an immature, 'it's all about me' kind of person on my birthday.  I do not expect that the world will stop turning, or that the birds sing only for my pleasure, just because it is the day of my birth.

Though, that'd be nice.

Mostly, I just want a nice day.  An easy day.  A day where I don't have to twist my brain, body, and schedule around like some Cirque de Soleil ham-and-egger.  I did not get this at the commencement of my 37th year.  Wanna know what I did get?

1) A phone call from my daycare provider.  She had a bad reaction to medication, and her doctors admitted her to the hospital, and planned to keep her for a few days. Ordinarily, I would just take the days off, but I was supposed to be training at a conference every day from 3 p.m. - 7 p.m., and my husband doesn't have any banked leave right now, so he couldn't take days off either.  This meant plotting out alternate work schedules with my husband so that we could tag-team caring for our 2-year-old.  My husband would go into work at dark o'clock in the morning, come home at lunch time, and then I'd be off to the conference.

(I am not an awful shallow person, worried about my job duties when someone's laid up in the hospital.  I was really worried about her.  It was only after she assured us that she was fine that we started figuring out alternate plans.)

2) A self-inflicted flat tire. I took a turn too quickly and surfed a curb with my Mazda 5. Yeah, Mazda 5s are not designed for off-roading shenanigans.  Also, my two-year-old did not enjoy the big bouncy bump and scrape, and started to cry.  Yay for me.  I broke the car AND made my kid cry.

3) I immediately took my car to the tire place, but they didn't have the tire that I needed in stock. They sent me on my way, rockin' a canary-yellow-rimmed donut where my lovely, full-sized tire used to be.

4) Since you're not supposed to drive on those donut tires for long distances or over 50 mph, I borrowed my husband's car for my drive into work.  His check engine light came on, and it was all lurchy when I was parallel parking it at the conference site.

5) The presentation was riddled with technical issues, for which I really only have myself to blame. 

6) About an hour before I left the conference to drive home, there was a punishment-from-God-sized water main break at a major intersection in downtown Baltimore.  Seriously, I think someone released the Kraken.  End result?  A commute that should've taken 15 minutes took an hour and 15 minutes.

7) To celebrate the occasion of my birth, my husband and I ordered sushi after the kids went to bed. I ordered a California roll and a sweet potato roll.  The sweet potato was undercooked.  I am probably the only person in the history of time who has complained that the grub she ordered from the sushi joint was undercooked.

I know, I know, WAH, right?  I've got all the blessings in the world, truly.  I should be able to accept a bad day without a bundle o' grumbling.  There's just something about it all piling up on your birthday, you know?

So, do-over.

Finally, Less of Me

I've been accused of burying the lead before, so:  I've dropped nearly twenty pounds over the past six weeks.  Huzzah!  This doesn't mean that I have a normal BMI yet, but I'm inching closer to it.

My sources (a.k.a., the interwebs) tell me I'm trimming down at a good rate, because if you lose any faster than that, you (a) are probably going to gain it all back, and (b) may end up resembling a deflated balloon. Slack latex is not a trend this year according to Vogue, so I'm trying to avoid that particular look.

Anyway, I shifted my intake and exercise on May 14, 2012, the day after Mother's Day. I mean, why would I want responsible menu choices hanging over my head on a day that's all about me? Plus, it would have meant I had to cook, and that's just silly talk.

But the pants... The pants were so tight. Not just my regular pants either. My scary-size pants. My work out pants. My pajama pants. Do you know how ridiculous it is when your pajama pants are tight?  Anyway, I was dangerously close to officially hitting the 'Obese' BMI category, and a number popped up on my scale that I hadn't seen since I was heavily pregnant.

Urk.

I know why I put on weight.  I've never been super-careful about my diet, so I've always carried a few extra pounds. Things ramped up, though, when the Little Guy was six months old, because that's when my mother was diagnosed with terminal brain and lung cancer. 

During the six months of her illness, I chose to stop breastfeeding (enormous stress + much time away from baby = weaning).  So, I wasn't getting rid of a couple of hundred calories a day, effort-free, anymore.  Add to that a whirlwind of hospital visits (where they serve ironically unhealthy food), dinner in the car (i.e., fast food), eating unending comfort food given by neighbors, and ordering in because I was too exhausted too cook. 

And then, she died.  Repeat the above, for another year.  These aren't excuses.  I think everyone asks themselves, "How did I get to this point?" You must do that in order to figure out how to deal with life, and the things about it that can suck, better.

This past spring, I knew things were not good, and that I had to change.  And thus, after a decadent Chinese swan song of kung pao chicken and cream cheese wontons (I know, I know), I decided to cowgirl up and deal with my sponginess.  I'm not doing a program; no Weight Watchers, no Jenny Craig, no South Beach, no Atkins.  None of that.  I mean, that's group work, to an extent, right?  And we all know how I feel about group work.

Basically, I'm doing what every phys. ed. teacher, article in 'Cosmo,' and episode of 'The Biggest Loser' tell you to do:  eat better, move more.

Rocket science, eh?  But it's working. Pants are loosening. Buttons have stopped popping. A hint of a waist is appearing. People at the office have even asked me if I'm losing weight (*pumps fist in air*).

Okay, so, in case you're interested, here are the specifics of what I've been up to:

1. Downloaded the LiveStrong Daily Plate app to track every horrifying thing I was eating. I generally know what's bad and what isn't, and those are the easy things to cut out.  Like, of course I'm not going to get loaded nachos. But yikes, there's a lot of calories and fat in those little Mini Moos that I was liberally dumping into my coffee.  So I brought in my own.  Easy.
2. Regarding the app, the nutrients pie chart the app offers has been especially helpful, because I'd never really paid attention to trying to keep to a balance of 60% carbs, 20% protein, and 20% (good) fat in my diet. Anyway, this has resulted in me swapping out junky for healthy, because, seriously, unless it's nirvanalicious, most pizza is just not worth it.
3. Stopped dining out like I was the Sultan of Brunei.  I couldn't adequately account for what I was eating. Extra bonus is that this saved me some money as well.
4. Cut out most booze.  Not all.  Just most.
5. Hit the gym regularly.  Regularly = more often than the quarterly, "we miss you!" e--mails from the YMCA. Joking aside, I go to the gym or track every day, run for 30 minutes, and then do some weight-training.
6. Committed to drinking water. Lots and lots and lots of water.  Liters.  Seriously, I hit the ladies room every 90 minutes.  Before, I drank lots and lots of coffee.  I made a deal with myself that I would only drink a cup of coffee if I preced it with 20 ounces of water.  This has dramatcially cut down on my coffee intake.

It hasn't been a really big struggle, believe it or not. The toughest parts for me have been balancing the workout regimen with family time, and not appearing rude if I eschew (ha!) the unhealthy items on the menu at a party.  With respect to the former, as wonderfully supportive as my husband is, I don't want to abandon him with the kids every night, so I'll try to go to the gym before he leaves for work at 7:00 a.m., or at night after I put the Little Guy to bed.

Ultimately, it's like anything:  you actually have to want to do this.  Like, if an addict is forced into rehab, most of the time, the clean living doesn't hold.  And I wanted to do this.  I wanted my pants to fit.  I wanted to avoid the kindhearted 'you need to lose weight' pearls of wisdom during my physical.  Forty years down the road, I don't want my children to worry about me because I'm suffering from some ailment that I caused by living like a dope.

But mostly, I wanted my pants to fit.

Are You Ready for the Summer? Are you Ready for the Good Times?

Yesterday was the first day of summer camp for the Boy and the Girl.  Little Guy remains snuggled into his in-home daycare situation, though I'm sure he would be thrilled to splash around in the muddy creek on the campgrounds.  But the starting age is five, so he's out of luck.

Anyway, when my husband picked them up from camp yesterday, the Girl announced, "I think I'm going to love it here!"  The Boy, eyes downcast, lip trembling, mumbled, "Today was the worst day of my life."

And so it goes with these two.

I understood the Boy's doldrums, though:

1. Four of his friends are signed up for the same camp, but none of them were there yesterday.  Unfortunate coincidence.
2. Yesterday was indoor-swim day. The Boy does not like to be required to do something.  He prefers to feel that he has a choice in the matter.  I, of course, ignore this and steamroll him often.  Which probably doesn't help things, but hey, you don't always get to pick your activity, you know?  Anyway, they told him he had to swim, and then, because he's one of the youngest in his group, he had to where a life vest.  This doubled-down on his displeasure.
3. It rained yesterday.  Not buckets, but enough to turn the fields into a squelchy mess.  Rain = no fun in the sun.

Today was a little better, though, so p'raps by the end of the week, he'll happily bolt from the car.

I Still Haven't Learned How to Steer This 36-Year-Old Body

Wiping out on perfectly tidy concrete stairs sure makes a girl feel poised and graceful! This I know, as this happened to me on my way into the office this morning.  All I was doing was checking my e-mail on my phone, and ker-flop!  The toe of my very sensible flat caught on the step, and down I went.  I was mostly unscathed (thanks to a fortuitous choice in jeans), but my phone was perilously close to having been lost. 

I let it go during my tumble so that I wouldn't smash my nose against the steps.  Had it been an iPhone, I may not have made that choice, but that's neither here nor there.  Anyway, the phone skittered across the landing and slid into the ivy that rolls down the hill into which the steps are carved. 

Gar. 

I spent the next minute belly-flopped on the concrete, fishing for my phone.  Luckily, it was pretty close to the steps, so my tiny T-Rex arms were able to recover it.

This can only mean good things on the horizon with my work day, yes?

On Radiohead

I'm feeling left out of something.  So, I have to pick on it, because I'm mature like that.

Here it is:  I have a theory that a bunch of the people who say they like Radiohead are fibbing, because they know Radiohead is critically cool.  Obviously, there are people who are truly passionate about them, or there wouldn't be that many nodding heads and glowing cell phones on the live stream from Bonnaroo that I have on in the background.

I don't know, man.  I'm sure a rain of shite (i.e., two comments) will descend on me for declaring my ambivalence toward Radiohead. But it's such a thing among some Gen-Xers. Radiohead = God. Done. No further discussion needed.  Let's all just hang back in our chunky black glasses, confident in our premium vintage of musical entertainment.

But I just can't get on board with the deification of Radiohead.  And if anyone should, it's me.  I mean, good Christ, I was ridiculously plugged into the early '90's music scene, the time when they hit the national (alternative) stage.  This is me from 1989 to 1994:  Reading Rolling Stone cover to cover (and I mean even all of the Top 10 lists in he back, EVEN COUNTRY), going to all-ages shows in dives around Baltimore and DC, HFStivals, DC101 Chili Cook-offs, house parties with live bands, high school jazz band performances...

I should at least be nostalgic for Radiohead, shouldn't I?  Hearken back to my junior year of high school, developing black and white photos in the art department's dark room after school?  I mean, jeez, my musical opinion fomented in the age of 'Creep.' So, really, just for nostalgic reasons, I should freakin' love them, right?  But NO. I don't. I want to cram their fake plastic trees in a recycling bin. I want to tell Kid A that he needs to go to summer school. I want the karma police to arrest them.

I have tried, and tried, and tried again, but either the emperor has no clothes and they are merely meh, or I have really, really missed the boat on something.  I worry that I'm going to be that sniffy 60-something who's all, "I didn't much care for the Beatles.  Herman's Hermits were more my thing."

Ticky

Over the Mermorial Day weekend, my husband and I road tripped to Connecticut -- SANS CHILDRENZ -- to attend the wedding of one of his college roommates.  It was glorious.  You know how, when you were a little kid, you bounded out of bed and greeted every morning with enthusiasm because you could do whatever you wanted?

It was like that.

I didn't even sleep in!  There was just too much me-time to enjoy.  My husband and I were simpatico in this.  For the double-overnighter, he brought like six books.  I brought my laptop and my workout gear. 

Yes, that's right, WORKOUT GEAR. 

I have not spoken of my recent efforts to trim down my Stay Puft Marshmallow Man middle, because, really?  Who wants to hear about caloric restrictions and the new equipment at the gym?  It's like talking about the stock market, or horoscopes, or baseball stats.  At least 78% of the people in the room will yawn and their eyes will roll right out of their head.

Anyway, I pulled on this ancient workout gear and went for a jog around the local high school track.  Okay, jog may be a bit of an oversell.  I jog one lap, walk a half lap, etc., 'til I get to two or three miles. You marathoners can hold back your giggles.  My thumb-sized legs are not designed for long runs.

The track was okay, but the flock of geese hanging out in the shot put pit were clearly deciding if they wanted to start a turf war with me.  They'd marked their territory aplenty.  Those two miles were as much an obstacle course as anything else.

Afterward, I headed back to our palatial room at the Econo-Lodge and hopped in the shower to prep for the wedding.  As I scrubbed the sweat out of my hair, I felt something round and edgy on my scalp.  "Huh," I thought, "is that a scab?"  It is well within your rights to be grossed out by this.  I have made no secret of the enormity of my head, and, since I'm fresh out of curb feelers for my dome, I kind of inadvertently bang it on things. I don't even really notice minor injuries any more.  I may be concussed right now.  So sleepy...

But, it was no scab.  No sir.  It was a TICK.

Blech! Uch!  Yuck!  Ick! 

I just pulled a TICK off of my HEAD.  This does not help my aversion to outdoorsiness, Mother Nature!  I don't even know where I picked this thing up.  I didn't brush up against any trees on my way to and from the track.  I bet it was the geese.

My instinct was to drop it and let it go to a watery grave down the drain.  Then the rational side of my brain took over, and decided I should keep it to make sure it wasn't a deer tick.  I have a brother with Lyme Disease, and I want no part of it.  My solution was to stab it with the sliver of gratis bath soap.  Once he was firmly affixed to the sudsy bar, I thought, "Perfect!  Get out of THAT, bloodsucker!"

Except, I still needed to shave my legs, and for that, I needed unfettered access to the soap.  Herm.

My follow-up plan was to scrape the tick from the soap using my razor handle.  This took a few minutes.  Did you know that hotel soap is a more powerful binding agent than, say, God?  No?  Well, now you do.  Finally, I plastered the STILL WRIGGLING TERMINATOR TICK to a shelf in the bathroom.  I went about my ablutions, shaken, but determined to be ready on time for lunch and then the wedding ceremony.

After my shower, I did a little web research and identified the bug carcass:  it was a dog tick.  A DOG tick.  Great.  He couldn't tell the difference between me and a dog.  Okay, fine, ticks aren't picky.  But it is still not a thrill to be munched on by a dog tick.

You'd think this tale would be over now, right?  Bug found, dispatched, anxiety about the contraction of a neurological disease dissipated...  Nope.  We went to lunch, came back to the room, I fiddled around with my computer, then, when my locks were dry enough, I flat-ironed my hair.  All told, maybe three hours had passed since the shower?  And at the end of the flat-ironing, I took a peek in the mirror, hoping to see a sleek siren smiling back.  

I did!

But my visage dissolved into confusion, then horror, then grim determinedness.  I sighed, grabbed a tissue, and pinched ANOTHER tick from my neck.  Clearly, this one had somehow survived the shower, but hid out in my hair until the flat iron evicted it. 

I chose not to share this story with the bride and groom.  But, I *did* check them for ticks when I hugged them and congratulated them later.

Goodnight, Mom

My youngest child, Little Guy, is a man of few words.  This was also true for his big brother, so it is not especially worrying.  But, he's starting to express himself more, and the results are hilarious.  Now, at bedtime, I'll pop him in his crib and say, "Good night, pal."

"Goonigh, Mum."  (Yep, he's apparently British in his toddler-hood.)

"Good night, honey."

"Goonigh, Mum."

"Good night, sweetie."

And, repeat about six times.  I can't help feeding into the loop of "good nights."  It's hilarious to me that he'll just keep saying good night until I stop. 

Yesterday Was Just... Weird, Man. Just Weird.

We all sneer at astrology.  Until so many whacked-out things happen, you become CONVINCED that you are not an agent in it.  Instead, it becomes apparent something in the very firmament is skewy, and it is raining it's triune thundersnow upon your head.

Like yesterday.

While waiting for the bus stop, a pair of mating birds nearly FLEW INTO MY HEAD.  Look, I have a big head.  Not ego-wise.  Irish-wise.  But I didn't think it had it's own gravitational pull! As the birdies played the chasey-chasey game, one of them honestly buzzed my head, lifting my hair from my shoulders.  Can you imagine if they'd actually connected with my noggin?  I'd have to get treated for a concussion and rabies.

Stupid young love.

Next, when I tried to drop my daughter off at her Pre-K/daycare on UMBC's campus, there was a note plastered to the door that said, "Campus is on lock-down.  There is a gunman on the loose."

Um, what?

Now, all of you 'The Wire' devotees can just back off.  YES, there is a metric ton of crime in Baltimore.  But I live outside of the city in the suburbiest suburbs you can imagine.  Wisteria Lane?  PSHAW!  So, the idea that the college campus that is located behind my neighborhood has gun-totin' students, well, that was a new one.

So, I kissed my daughter goodbye and wished her godspeed.  NO, of course I didn't do that.  She came home with me until the shenanigans were resolved.  But, it kind of squashed my work-from-home plans.

After I dropped her off (you know, after the gunman was found and carted off to detention or whatever they do with students who stupidly break the law), I went to my son's 2nd grade class picnic.  When I say, 'picnic,' I mean sitting in a patch of dirt with grass whiskers, eating whatever I could cobble together for my son since he doesn't like sandwiches, or lunch meat, or most cheeses. 

This is what I came up with for him: 2 hard boiled eggs, a bucket of cubed watermelon, blueberries, a kosher pickle, string cheese, potato chips, and a juice box.  Yum?  But the weirdness of this rendez-vous was not the food, nor was it the 'games' we played (here's a tip to the teachers coordinating next year's picnic:  give parents the rules for the games we are supposed to lead). 

No, this weirdness was all about one of my son's friends.  For the purposes of this tale, please note that he is not a special-needs child. 

While we were unwrapping our lunches, he declared, "I can suck my toes!"  And proceeded to do that.  While sitting with us on our picnic blanket.  So there I am, munching on some baby carrots, and this kid is really lollipopping his big toe. "You know," I said, "that may seem hilarious now, but if you keep it up, you're going to be the kid in high school that everyone remembers sucked his toes at the 2nd grade picnic."

He did not seem to care.

As if on cue, though, two fourth grade girls at recess walked by, and he again shouts, "I can suck my toes!"  Both girls squealed, "EW!" He paused for a moment, but then jumped right back on that horse.

If he and my son have a play date, I may institute a "shoes stay on" policy.

I Know I Live in a Cookie-Cutter Kind of Neighborhood, but Really?

After the bus swallowed up the Boy and carted the neighborhood kids off to school, the Girl and I turned to go in the house to grab our stuff and climb in the car to head off to Pre-K.  That's when I noticed a rolled up piece of paper stuck in our door handle.

"Flyer," I thought to myself, and snatched it up as we entered the house. But lo, there was handwriting on it, which is kind of unusual.  It actually looked like the lawn care notes we used to get after a weed-killer spraying.  It was a double-pain in the ass to get that service canceled back in the Fall, so I thought, "Oh no...  I hope we didn't chuck some 'call us to cancel or we will spray your lawn with weed killer for the rest of your life!' junk mail."

That is not what happened, you'll be happy to know.

Nope. The service report I held in my hands was for a house around the corner from us.  Same street number, wildly differently named street.

"What the hell?" I said.

"You said 'What the hell'" the Girl said.

"I sure did," I answered.

Now, I've gotten this neighbor's mail before, but not pest control services.  I mean, what'd the guy do, just stop when he saw the street number and decide we must be the place?  Although, I was happy to see, the report indicated that we have no evidence of pest activity.  Which is good, I guess.  Validates the fact that we, you know, didn't actually order any pest control services.

I could only imagine the irritation of my neighbor, though, if she called this company and was all, "We're infested!  Where you at?" [Disclaimer: I have no idea if my neighbor speaks this way, but in my head she does.]  So, I did the neighborly thing and called the pest service company and informed them that I think they hosed down my house instead of the one that contracted their services.  To which they responded, "Oh boy."

Then, I left a message at my neighbor's house to let them know what happened. 

Watch.  I'll get a bill from the company for services rendered, and the neighbor will give me the cold shoulder because they are embarrassed that I know they have bugs.

Vampire Heaven

I gave blood today for the first time since my senior year of high school. This time was different, in that I wasn't trying to get out of a French quiz.

Anyway, my health questionnaire was just as hilariously vanilla as it was in 1993.  Have you lived in Europe for 5 years?  Nope.  Have you visited any of these [mostly developing] countries?  Nyet.  Have you shared needles?  Knitting needles?  Oh, those needles.  Again, no.

The only question that gave me pause was, "Have you been around people who have received a smallpox vaccine?"  No. Wait. Did my kids get the smallpox vaccine?  If they did, the last batch of vaccinations would've been Little Guy's in January... But if they got it, wouldn't we all have been vaccinated?  And they wouldn't ask me this if it's a vaccine that everyone gets. So... No. 

Behold the power of my deductive reasoning!

Upon concluding my questionnaire, determining that my iron count is good (13.5, yo!), and that my vitals were fine, they took me over to a gurney.  After I laid down, they poked around for a good vein (apparently I have a Y-shaped vein on my left inner elbow), and jabbed me.  Not to brag, but they told me I had good flow.  So, I've got that going for me.

It took all of eight minutes for me to fire hose the pint bag.  'Cause I'm awesome. It was at minute seven, though, that I started feeling faint.  I didn't actually faint.  That'd be weak sauce, and I am made of sterner stuff.  Stuff like Jell-O.

Instead, as everything faded to black, I announced calmly, "I'm starting to feel a little faint."  The attendants very helpfully plastered cold, sopping paper towels on my forehead and neck, handed me the most delicious five ounces of cranberry juice that I've ever drunk, and told me to tent my knees.  The fadeout reversed itself, and I thought, "Ooh, so that must have been what a vampire's victim feels. Huh."

CAN YOU DENY HOW COOL I AM?

I felt better after a minute or so, which, I am guessing, is largely due to the fact that they stopped taking my blood.  I moved over to the 'canteen,' a.k.a a table laden with snacky-type foods.  After I munched some pretzels, I felt far from woozy, an wobbled back to my office for a staff meeting.

We don't have blood drives at work every day. This one was put together in the name of the wife of one of my co-workers; she was recently diagnosed with a particularly vicious kind of cancer.  Much as I empathize with their situation, my contribution was in honor of my mother. While she was undergoing chemo, she had to have a few transfusions. Her body wasn't oxygenating blood properly, which made breathing a problem. The transfusions didn't save her or anything, but they made her more comfortable. How can I not offer that, or other lifesaving juice, to other people? 

It's something I'd been thinking about doing for awhile, and when the opportunity to do so opened up twenty feet away from my desk, well, it was time.

Remembering Grandmom

I didn't really have any firm Mother's Day plans today. I didn't want to visit my mother's "filing cabinet," as she called it, at the mausoleum.  I mean, when I think of her spirit, it's not at Woodlawn Cemetary. If anything, it's at the beach, or at my parents' house, or anywhere there is a pile of steamed crabs and beer.

As for my mother-in-law, the chocoloate-covered strawberries had alread been sent and received, and a lovely chat was had. 

So, for today, we really had no obligations beyond being lazy.  But, I don't really know how to be lazy, so I thought we could use the open schedule to return the car that we'd borrowed from my father for my parents-in-law to use during their recently concluded visit.

On the way home from said journey, my daughter piped up from the back seat, "Mom? I'm sorry that your mother died."

"Me too, sweetie. Thank you for saying so."

"On the night that Grandmom died," my older son chimed in, "I remember it because that was the night that I learned about 'Angry Birds.'"

I laughed so hard at that.  The idea that he was enthralled with this newfangled iPad game his cousins introduced to him while I was grieving over my mother's dying...  Well, it's just really funny.  And reassuring that whle I was a numb-bot for a couple of months, they mostly just noticed things like 'Angry Birds.'

I Should Write a Parenting Guide

The Boy and the Girl were upstairs getting dressed, brushing their teeth, trying to stuff each other's heads in the toilet (you know, normal stuff) while a finished my morning coffee.  All of the sudden, the Girl yells, "MOM! The Boy said I was FAT!"

Egads.  We will have none of that in this house because (a) the Girl is not in any way fat, (b) at five years old, she shouldn't waste any brain space on fat, or thin, or any of that nonsense, and (c) I suspect that they'll get enough teasing in school, and I don't want them to have to hear it at home as well.

Also:  if he considers her fat, then he must think I look like Jabba the Hutt or something.

"Boy!" I bellowed. "Get down here, NOW!"

He peeped his head around the corner of the stair railing, fidgeting with his tube socks.

"Come here, please."

He sidled up next to me until our faces were pretty close.  I asked very quietly (as I did not want the Girl to overhear a Very Serious Discussion about her body weight), "Did you call your sister fat?"

"Well, she asked me if..."

"Honey," I interrupted, "let me tell you something.  If a girl ever, ever, ever, ever, ever asks you if she looks fat, the only right way to answer that is, 'No, you look beautiful.'"

"But what if..."

"Nope."

"She asked if her shirt..."

"Nope."

He looked at me for a second, then shrugged and ran off to slip into his socks and shoes.

Did I give him permission to lie? Nah, not really. 'Cause here's the thing:  a woman wants an honest answer to that question about one out of a thousand times.  The other nine hundred ninety-nine times, she wants affirmation that she's pretty. So, what I really did was prevent a few clashes in the future when a girlfriend asks him how her butt looks in her new jeans.

You're welcome, future girlfriend.

My Parents-in-Law Just Left

And the DVR is chock full of television programs that were unwatchable while my mother-in-law shared our square footage. Ask any of her children -- if there's even a single inappropriate minute in the show, that will be the moment she enters the room.

My husband is still working through some post-traumatic stress over these occasions from his childhood.  

Anway, we are beginning to work our way through our recordings. This is the conversation selecting this evening's entertainment:

Super Ninja: So, what'll it be? Parks & Rec? Sherlock Holmes?

Me: Nah, not Sherlock Holmes. Let's go with Parks & Rec.

Super Ninja: Okay. But, just so you know, it's not the nerdy Sherlock Holmes.

Me: Honey, it's Sherlock Holmes. It's always nerdy.

The Worst Chore Ever (for Me)

Is cleaning out my children's closets. Why?  Because several of my distinct, outrageously strong personality traits are working at cross-purposes:

1.  ORGANIZATION!  Everything MUST be organized!  But what do you do when clothing manufacturers deviate from the standard X-Y months or ZT sizing.  WHAT DO YOU DO?

2.  KINDNESS!  Everything that doesn't fit my children must be handed down to the next generation of babies and toddlers so that their parents freely benefit from our stash!

3.  FRUGALITY!  Everything that is handed off to someone (see #2) who has a boy child younger between my youngest (2) and oldest (7) boys will need to return the clothes so that I can use them again for my youngest.  So I mark the tags with identification, slightly worrying that the loanee will think I'm not gracious.

4.  SENTIMENTALITY!  I don't have an eidetic memory, but I have a pretty good one, and visions of my kids as tiny newborns snuggled up in that fuzzy jacket or onesie are overpowering.  Also, I have a hard time getting rid of things. I blame being the sixth of seven children and not having a lot of my own stuff before the age of fourteen, when I was a babysitting machine and could buy my own NEW barrettes, goddammit, and not have to use the ancient ones with the gold paint that's half flaked off.

5.  IRONY!  I have come to believe that irony is the guiding principle of my life, and that if I get rid of all of the baby stuff, I will suddenly, inexplicably find myself pregnant.  IT HAS HAPPENED TO WOMEN NAMED MARY BEFORE. 

THIS is the cocktail that bubbles in my brain while I am stacking 2T polo shirts and deciding if a onesie is stain free enough to keep.  But, I must be the one to complete this chore because if I outsourced it to my husband, he'd just chuck everything and call it a day.

So, let's all just stay out of the guest room where the maelstrom of clothes is lurking, okay?

Patrick and Gina Neely We Are Not

Background: The Boy has religious education class on Tuesday nights.  Oh yes, he's being catechized six ways to Sunday. HA! Anyway, his class is from 5:30 p.m. - 6:45 p.m., so Super Ninja drops him off after ramming a Happy Meal down his throat.  I stay late at work, and pick the Boy up on my way home.  We get home around 7:00 p.m., and I cook dinner for the adults in the house.

Me: We need his and hers kitchens (This is after we bumped into each other three times as I am trying to cook and he is putting away dishes.)  Mine would have an Aga and Ginsu knives.  Yours would have a toaster and hot plate to boil water for hot dogs.

Super Ninja: That sounds about right.

So, interwebs, if you want to get on a kitchen remodel for us, I'd be down with that.  I'm pretty sure Super Ninja's 'kitchen' could be relocated to the deck.  Food for thought. Again: HA!

Night Walk

The weather's been beautiful 'round here of late, and it's awakened my need to be out there, mixing it up with nature, basking in the glow of a moonrise.  You know, Outward Bound shit. Except for only 20 minutes, and in my neighborhood, and with several ounces of bug spray.

Anyway.

Tonight I invited the Girl to take a night walk with me. She happily accepted, and slipped on her pink kitten rain boots. We walked up the hill , hand in hand, and she scooped up every dandelion that had gone to seed along the way.  She calls them "wishing flowers," because that's what you do with them. You blow the seeds off of the stem, and make a wish.

Her repeated wish?

That her good friend -- one of my best friend's daughters -- would marry the Boy. She realized a long time ago that if the Boy married this particular little girl, then they would be sisters. Once that little factoid manifested, she was cool with their nuptials.

As we summited the hill, the streetlamps came on, and I announced that it was time to go back down the hill to our house.  The girl turned to me, cheeks flushed, blond pigtails floating in the breeze, and asked, "Can I run home?"

"Yup," I answered. 

And off she ran, hair bouncing and streaming behind her like a contrail from a rocket.  She veered around a curve, disappearing from my sight.  I got a little nervous, but this is what raising kids is, right?  You try and game the scenario a little, so that they aren't in frightening situations.  But you let them go, knowing that you taught them to look before they cross the street.

When I laid eyes on her again, she was feigning sleep in our front yard, curled up against the decorative mini-boulder that hides a pipe. She does this when she wants to be carried up to bed, so I obliged. After slipping her in her pajamas, I tucked her in, kissed her on the cheek, and said good night.

And then she demanded snacks, two stories, four cuddles, and a lullaby.  And I thought the walk would tucker her out.

It's Not Always About Cancer

I was chatting in the hallway yesterday with a co-worker.  Another co-worker, we'll call her Sunshine, arrived to start a meeting with the first guy.  Anyway, she took a look at the necklace I was wearing and said, "I love your necklace.  Is it in honor of your mother-in-law?  Oh, I mean your mother?"
Puzzlement! I couldn't imagine how my necklace would have inspired her to ask that. 

"No," I answered, "it actually represents my oldest son and me.  We were both born in July; these are our birthstones."

"I see.  It does resemble the ribbon, though." (Sunshine does not like to be incorrect.)

"I guess maybe it does," I answered.

And then she and my other co-worker made their excuses and commenced their meeting.  Sunshine didn't say anything particularly wrong (although, it should be noted that she sidestepped saying the word 'cancer' which contributed to my 'Wha?'). 

Anyway, this necklace of mine...  It doesn't really look like a cancer ribbon.  If anything, it looks like two cherries. It's an elongated loop of gold, almost like a cursive capital 'I,' studded with diamonds.  A ruby punctuates each strand of the loop. 

You'd have to look pretty hard to see a cancer ribbon.  And this has made me wonder: is this the lens through which people see me now? As someone who's mother died of cancer? I don't know if I'm okay with that. It's undeniably a part of my identity. We are all made up of our triumphs and tragedies.  But it's not all of who I am.

A Love Letter from My Daughter

"Mom, I think that you hate me."

What did I do to deserve such a lovely note? (Though, I should say I applaud her pre-K penmanship and grammar skills.)

This morning, the Boy and the Girl performed their usual morning antics while we waited for the big yellow bus to come scoop the Boy up for school.  By 'antics,' I mean that they both zip around on vehicles of their choosing.  He rides a Spider-man scooter, while she rides a Disney Princess bike equipped with (heavily abused) training wheels. 

They both like to go fast.

They both like to ride the same route.

It was only a matter of time before these preferences resulted in injury.  The Girl sped up the (slight) hill while the Boy raced down.  They clipped each other's handlebars, and he tumbled off the scooter. 

I was hauling plastic garbage bags of yard waste around to the curb (cue: "I Am Every Woman,"), so I saw this all from a few yards away.  I gave him a second to decide if he was hurt. The tears were kind of a tip-off that he decided yes, he was hurt.  Closer inspection revealed scraped palms, a wounded knee,  and a bruised ego.  For the latter, I asked the Girl to apologize.

Now, I didn't want her to apologize because she did anything wrong, but because I am trying to instill a sense of empathy.  When one of my kids hurts another -- accidentally or purposefully -- I want them to be sorry that it happened, and sorry for the hurt the other one feels.  The Little Guy is excused from this since his verbal skills would just confuse the others. Unless he's asking for pizza, goldfish crackers, 'Wiggles,' or 'Scooby Doo,' then he's clear as a bell.

The reason I'm insistent on these apologies is that I've run into (not literally) people who think that apologies are warranted only if they intended to do harm.  Accidents are the universe's fault, so why apologize for those?  If you mow over an old lady to get to the checkout lane that just opened up at the grocery store, well, there's no need to apologize, because you didn't mean to break her hip.

Those people are jerks.

Since I am the boss of my house (well, co-boss), I get to mandate that apologies are offered when injury results from intent OR accidental commission.  And the Girl, well, she has started declaring that she thinks we hate her if we make her do something that goes against her grain.

My response?

"No, honey, I love you, and I want you to grow up and have friends and people who like you and love you.  And if you're unkind to people, you won't have that."

Please don't think I say this beatifically while a short blond banshee wails that we hate her because we didn't give her the 47 pieces of chocolate that she wanted.  No, my calm explanations are at the low points of a dramatic sine wive.  At the zenith?  I usually have to excuse myself from the room so that I can go calm myself down.  And then after we all calm down, there are giggle fits and hugs and kisses.

I don't envy my husband ten years from now, when she's in the thick of puberty and I will likely be in the throes of menopause.

There Is a Man Cleaning My Office Windows

And it's like that scene from Mission: Impossible: Ghost Protocol, the one where Tom Cruise (or Ethan Spymaster, take your pick) scales the Burj Khalifa using nothing but a technologically sticky glove AND HIS WITS. Except the window cleaner here is actually using  ropes, pulleys, and this double-suction-cup-attached-to-a-handle thingamabob (we'll call it a DSCATAH, because that trips off the tongue).  Perhaps he is also using his wits, though I don't know that this job requires that. 

The DSCATAH  holds him steady whilst he squeegees away the bird poo.  Anyway, I think Mr. Window Cleaner is working out some issues because he ker-slams the DSCATAH against the window as the he is angry at the window. I'm not sure what the window ever did to him, besides exist.

Jeez, window.  Think of other people sometimes, why don't you?

Pet Peeve #1

I apologize if this is the nine millionth 'pet peeve' post that I've written. I did my due diligence, by which I mean I typed 'pet peeve' into the search engine in the upper left-hand corner of this blog, and it only returned one blog post.

Between you and me, blogosphere, I don't know how that could be. I routinely hold people accountable for the rules in my head. Where is the vitriol that I believed myself to be spewing? Do I hold myself back?

Meh.  Probably.

Anyway, there is something that cropped up in three different facets of my life recently, and as I am a faithful observer of the Rule of Threes, I took it as a sign.

Okay, so, here goes: I can't stand it when someone basically runs into an obstacle and just kind of announces the problem to someone else. Sometimes it's not even stated as though it is a problem. The stater expects the statee to intuit that a problem exists, and offer a solution to it.

Luckily, this doesn't happen very often in my house. Well, it does with my kids, but I'm beating that out of them.  No, this usually happens in different spheres.  And it just makes me feel like the people unloading their problems are making me do all the work. And then I have shell shock flashbacks to 'group' work in high school in college where the other kids would try and Tom Sawyer me into doing everything.

I WILL NOT WHITEWASH YOUR FENCE, GOON!

Not unless there are rewards of Shiraz and Hunan Peking crab rangoon. And since Hunan Peking shuttered about six years ago, you better be packing bottles of the red stuff.

The Morning Routine

The Boy and the Girl are upstairs right now getting ready for school. I can hear them giggling, which I like. Giggling often turns into goofing, though, which then turns into me pulling on my Mantle of Stern and yelling, "What's going on? Is everybody dressed?"

See, the typical, 95%-of-the-time morning routine is this:  I hit the downstairs by 7:15 a.m. and make breakfast. (Often, the kids are already snuggled up on the couch. If not I haul them out of bed, literally). Next, if I haven't done myself a solid and made lunches the night before, I slap those together while they eat their cereal/pancakes/yogurt goo.

On late mornings, I'm sit down with my gourmet breakfast of non-fat Chobani and coffee at 7:45 a.m.  This is when the Goon Squad is supposed to shuffle off to their bedrooms to get dressed, then brush their teeth, and return to the downstairs for shoes, hair brushing, and shoving their schoolwork and lunches into backpacks.  We're out the door by 8:15 a.m. so the Boy can catch the school bus, and then the Girl and I zip off to Pre-K.

As I type this, there was a large thump from the upstairs hallway, and it sounds like the Boy has shut and locked his door. That usually means the Girl is pestering him while he's slipping into his clothes.

Sigh.

It may turn into one of those Volume-Gets-Things-Done mornings.I don't like to yell. Can you imagine me yelling? I avoid conflict like it's a needy drunken sorority girl with a mean streak.

My kids make me feel like Bixby-Hulk sometimes. "Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

It's only 7:55 a.m., so I still have my hopes up that they'll arrive momentarily and just need a little help with the shoe-tying and the pig-tailing.

I Shouldn't Love Inanimate Objects

Ew! Get your mind out of the gutter. This is the objet de mon affection:

Regina Andrew Small Mercury Glass Clove Table Lamp

It was my "yay, I did our taxes and we got a small return!" lamp. Now, it is stupid, STUPID, to love a highly breakable lamp. Especially when I have:

•  a 7-year-old who would like to be CM Punk and regularly practices patented WWE moves in our living room,
• a 5-year-old who embodies the spirit of 'Maniac' better than Jennifer Beals,
• and a 2-year-old, who is, well, a 2-year-old.

In fact, as I gaze lovingly at the sweet curves of my treasured lamp, this guy is parked next to it:

Little People® Wheelies™ DC Super Friends™ Superman™

The Man of Steel vs. a glass lamp? No doubt of the victor there. The real question is, WHY did my toddler need to get all vroom-vroomy near the new lamp? Why not host a Little People drag race near the old metal lamps that I bought from IKEA?

It's like he targets what I actually care about and tortures me. I know it's my own fault for spending more than $10 on a lamp, okay? But I couldn't help myself. The lamp...it beckoned.

Brief Thought for Today: Ballet Class

I would like for the little girls' leotard industry to have a summit with the little girls' underpants industry so that they can agree on the angle of the cut of both of these things. This will soothe my OCD nature. Why? Because at ballet class, I have noticed that slices of EVERY LITTLE GIRL's underpants peep out from underneath the leotards. I mean, what are they supposed to wear? 5T thongs?

(By the way, I shudder to think of what yucko bots will happen upon this post. If I get any suspicious trackbacks, I will SHUT IT DOWN.)

So, I Just Got Back from My Quarterly Workout

And I was outpaced by a blind woman. Now, I know that being blind has nothing to do with how fast your feet can fly.  But still. There is no ego boost in being bested by a disabled person, no matter what the disability is. I had a water bottle in the little cup holder on the digital program display. She had a white cane.

She wins.

In high school, I ran an eight-minute mile. Today, I ran a 16-minute mile.  This is fair, I think, considering I am now twice as old as I was in high school. Also slowing me down is that my bra-size is twice as large. Have I ever shared the system I have in place for preparing to work out so that I don't accidentally knock myself out with an errant breast bounce?

No?

First, I get dressed in my normal business-like undergarments. They do not make pretty in this size. Oh, sure, you might get a tiny afterthought of a satin bow where the cups meet. But there is no lace, no frills.  And CERTAINLY no color. Nope. This here is a Soviet bra.

Then, on top of my normal sling, I strap on a sports bra.  This is no ordinary jersey-and-lycra comfy sports bra. This one has hook-and-eye closures. TEN OF THEM. I think it actually has more fasteners than my wedding gown did.

So, yeah, I have to double-up in an effort to get my breasts to stay put while I bound through my "run." Why the quotations? Because I'm pretty sure that my form, given my time, is the same as that guy who furiously pumps his arms while crossing the street against the signal, but isn't actually moving his feet any faster than normal. 

We've Exceeded Our Nerd Conversation Quotient for this Evening

Conversation #1: While watching 'Up All Night':

Ava's stepmother has entered the scene...

Me: Is that Keiko?

Super Ninja: I think so.

Why this is a nerdy conversation: You would have had to (1) watch Star Trek: the Next Generation often enough to know the supporting characters' spouses by name; (2) have seen her so much via that syndicated series that you recognize her dialogue-less appearance a 18 years later; and (3) you would have had to like ST:TNG a lot to rank ST:TNG over some of the other critically acclaimed stuff that Rosalind Chao has done (The Joy Luck Club, Six Feet Under, the A-Team).

Conversation #2: Post the Post-Dinner Errand Run to the Liquor Store and the Comic Book Store:

Super Ninja: So, I was in the comic book store reading a Next Gen novel...

Me (not asking him to explain why he was reading a next Gen novel): Yeah?

Super Ninja:  And these two teenage girls come into the comic book store.  And they didn't really look like the type of teenage girls that you would expect to see shopping in a comic book store.

Me: They had normal-colored hair and they weren't wearing inappropriately tight clothing?

Super Ninja: Yeah. So, they stood at the door, looked around and they made a beeline for the counter. The guy at the front said, 'Hi, can I help you?' and they were like, 'Um, no, that's okay.' And then one turned to the other and said, 'Was that him?' And the second one said, 'This was a complete waste of time.' And the first one said, 'There are a lot of comic books in here.' And the second one said, 'It smells funny in here.'

Me: Was there a new 'Saga,' 'Buffy,' or 'Angel & Faith' this week?

Super Ninja: Nope.

And, scene...

Why this is a nerdy conversation:  Really?  You REALLY need me to explain the finer points of the nerdliness here?

THEM!

This is our third spring in this house, and this will be our third battle with ants. I don't remember requesting that particular conveyance when we bought the house. Or the curtains. Yet there they are.

Anyway, they are not the scary giant irradiated kind of ants. But they are BOLD. Whilst lounging on the couch earlier today, I thought, "Huh, something on my wrist tickles." I looked down.

Agh! Ant!

One flick sent the scout sailing across my living room and I was back to my novel. But ick, right? Listen, I'm not a bugophobe or anything like that. I pinched cicadas off trees with them best of 'em in 1987 and 2004. This is the first year that they invaded my lazy space, though, and I'm not having it. Tonight, Super Ninja hosed down their normal party surfaces with Raid and more bug traps are on order.

I have a Plan B for the chemicals, though.

My daughter is the official bug cruncher in the house. She tracks the ants and the box elder beetles (a.k.a., stink bugs) that lazily kamikaze our lamps, squishes them, and scoops them up and pitches them in the garbage. There's no squealing, no histrionics, just a very business-like, methodical stalking and dispatching.

Hmm.  Maybe I should be worried about that?

Dreamsome

I had a dream about my mother on Monday night. Listen, you don't need to roll your eyes. I usually start to glaze over when someone starts a story with, "So, I had this crazy dream!"

I GET IT.

But, if I don't write about it, images from it'll keep rolling around my brain like a coin dropped into one of those spiral wishing wells at the mall.

So.

We were sitting at a picnic table; my father was there too. My mother looked just as she did before she got sick, and that's the first time that I've seen her like that in a dream. Honestly, I've only dreamed about her three times since she passed away, and the other two times, she appeared ill, wearing her white baseball cap, and she was kind of... well... droopy. Beaten. Tired.

But this time, she was just as I've seen her a thousand times: enjoying the sun, wearing a striped t-shirt, glasses, and sporting a granny ponytail. We didn't talk. There were no life truths that I told myself via the dreamscape. But it felt good to see her animated and not have it be through a computer screen..

It felt good. Reassuring. If you believe in the heebie-jeebie, which I do, it's a message that she's OK. If you believe in the everyday, which I do, then its a message to myself that I'm getting to be OK.

Either way is good, no?

Top 8, Ahem, Interesting Social Media Behaviors

Why eight? Because I couldn't think of ten. Ten's overrated. Learn to enjoy eight.

Anyway, I'm no expert. It's not like I've written a thesis paper on social media; I just use it. (Digression: If you write a thesis on social media, do you tweet it to your professor? Because you should totally tweet that shit.)

Before we begin, it is important that you know how I perceive the usage of social media. This is a far-from-exhaustive list.

Twitter: You're at a big party in your honor, but you know only some of the people in attendance. The rest are three classes of strangers: (1) those who wandered by the open front door and thought it looked like a good time, (2) they like the cut of your jib, but you have no actual history with them, and (3) porn bots. Anyway, at this party, your brain has glitch that causes you to shout out observations at random intervals. All partygoers hear you; some choose to respond, some don't.

Facebook: It's your wedding reception. You are the best of friends with some of the attendees, related to many others, co-workers to some, and some of them you don't really know, but your parents made you invite them. Many strata of intimacy, but you did actually invite all of them to come, so you probably know them a tiny bit better than some of the yokels who follow you on Twitter.

Blog: Newsletter, postcard, whatever, tacked to a bulletin board. It's out there, people can read it, but you don't force it on them. They come to it. Also, since this is a medium that allows you some time to ponder before you press "Publish," you'd better have spell checked it. (I know that blogs aren't really social media unto itself, but people tweet or status update references to their blogs all the time, so here we are.)

Oh, also? I'm leaving out the gaming requests, because everyone already knows they are annoying. I won't be shedding any light there. Okay, here we go, in ascending order of ahem, interestingness (one = mildly annoying, ten = face meltingly uncool):

1) Taking pictures of your meals. Unless you work for Food & Wine magazine, chances are excellent that the photos are (a) out of focus, and (b) make your food look pretty unappetizing.

2) Posting your location. Why? Why do I care if you're at the Melting Pot? Especially if I'm not invited. Just makes me feel like you're bragging. Plus, you're telling everyone that you aren't home. It's an excellent way to lose a plethora of valuables, yes?

3) Posting your running stats. I have no idea why I know so many runners. When did that happen? Is it just among my circle of friends? Or does everyone run and I'm out of the loop because I'm busy changing diapers when everyone else is running? I don't know. But I do know my playwriting classmate's personal 5K best.

4) Not being able to complete a thought in 144 characters or LESS. Twitter posts things in real time, right? So if you can't edit, and you burp out your thoughts in three or four tweets, you reader probably stumbles on the last tweet and is all, "Wha?" It's not like it's breaking rocks to scroll back through a series of tweets, but it's annoying.

5) #Putting #a #hashtag #in #front #of #everything #you #write.

6) Uploading a hundred pictures from a drunken weekend and tagging everyone in it. Look, for good or for ill, employers are checking out employees' Facebook pages. So, if we happen to be a party together and I act a fool, I really don't need you to throw it out there for the world to see.

7) Posting totally inaccurate news stories. The politically ranty among us do this at an alarming rate. See, here's the thing: you're posting via a connected medium. This tells me that you have access to the internet, and could therefore fact check a thing or two. It's called Snopes.com, people. Bill Cosby didn't produce an "I'm tired, welfare is stupid, everyone's lazy" rage. That is the masterwork of former state senator Robert Hall. Know how long it took me to find that out? One minute.

8) Christening your collective of Twitter followers. ESPECIALLY if it is your own name. Patricia Heaton uses 'Tweatons.' Ugh, right? I don't have a problem with fans having a collective name in general, like 'Trekkies.' But I don't think Gene Roddenberry named them, you know? He probably just called them fans. He certainly didn't call then "Roddenberrites."

9) Only using these sites to shill. It's a given that comics, authors, actors, musicians, etc., will take the opportunity to notify their fans of upcoming performances, publications, broadcasts, whatever. Totally cool. But it'd also be nice to hear a thought or two direct from the source, you know? That's part of what makes it "social" media. Otherwise, why wouldn't I just go to a fan site?

10) Announcing major life events to people with whom you are supposed to be close. Seriously? You're telling you sister you're getting married by switching your Facebook relationship status from "In a relationship" to engaged?

[Editor's Note: I COULD think of ten. I added two after surfing Twitter and catching other things that made me roll my eyes.]

Don't Hide Your Light Under a Bushel Basket

I had a Facebook chat recently that made me laugh out loud, so I thought I would share. Because that's not obnoxious or anything, right? Trying to get additional giggles out of conversation leftovers?

Anyway, names have been removed to protect the innocent and all that jazz. Here's the background: one of my friends, we'll call her New England, posted a petition on her Facebook account to ask Republican leaders to denounce Rush Limbaugh. Someone she knows (let's see, clever pseudonym...), we'll call him Dummy, spewed PAGES of vitriol and invective in response. A mutual friend of New England's and mine decided to taunt him. She will henceforth be known as Same Name.

In case you live under a rock (no offense, Coober Pedy!) and don't know why anyone would be posting a petition to protest Rush Limbaugh (besides the obvious, I mean). Here's the fulmeroar*: Sandra Fluke, a student from Georgetown University Law School, testified before Congress on the necessity of including contraception in health care plans.

Rush Limbaugh responded to her thoughtful, intelligent testimony with crude assumptions and insults. In his cloacal ramblings, it's clear that he misunderstands how the mandate is being funded. He thinks it's paid for through taxes. Nope. The mandate requires that private, non-church/temple/mosque/compound employers include contraception in their plans, and if they choose not to, that the insured has the option of obtaining it directly from the health care provider, at the provider's cost, which they would be okay with, 'cause guess what? Birth control pills are less expensive than BABIES.

Taxpayers funding health care plans that provide birth control may be in our futures, what with the introduction of universal health care. Although, I repeat: birth control pills are less expensive than BABIES.

The problem in oh, so, so many ways, is that Rush Limbaugh has way more access to the ears and minds of America than, say, C-SPAN. This means an unfortunately large swath of people believe what Rush said is true. And one of them has access to the Facebook page of my friend.

Here is the conversation that Same Name and I had about New England's page after the fact:

Same name: Dear lord, have you seen this craziness re: [New England]'s post?
I know it's wrong to poke a bear, but sometimes it's just so, so hard not to.

Me: I did -- she sent me an e-mail about it (including [her brother]'s response). That individual clearly needs some kind of medication or hug. Or medicated hug. And he needs to learn that he's misinformed about who's paying for what.

Same Name: Medicated hug is brilliant. I really need to stop before he hunts me down and kills me. I imagine him like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man coming for me.

Me: Yes, and he would also be sucking his thumb. And waving a box of condoms at you. So, is this the kind of non-mommy-group intellectual stimulation you were looking for? Because if so, you know, FAIL. Also, I think medicated hugs should be applied by pandas wearing capes.

Same Name: More brilliance. Where's the petition to get that covered by universal health care?

Me: It would pass in a heartbeat.


...and, scene.


*One of Super Ninja's former co-workers totally ganked up the word falderol, which was so perfect, I now choose to use fulmeroar.

PartEs [sic] that Don't End Up Well

There's a metric ton of infuriating news right now, much of which I have opinions about. Started writing a blog post about it, even. But, then I thought, "Why pepper everyone with thoughts and arguments that are much more eloquently and cogently made by people who are paid to do so?" Plus, I started getting bored about a paragraph in, which is just never a good sign for a blog entry.

So, instead, I bring you my son's first foray into serial cartooning:

The misspelling is on purpose; it adds some hipster flava.

Cartoon #1: Man Wets Himself at Party

Looks like Mr. Party Guy had a little too much punch and couldn't restrain his bladder. And it just happens to be party that has a spotlight, which is trained on him at this inopportune moment. Quelle situation gênante! And the hostess is trying to keep it together, forcing a smile to gloss over the situation. My favorite part? The pretzels that were dropped on the floor.

Cartoon #2: Groom Spills Communion Wine on Bride

Now we find ourselves in a church. We can trust that the reception will not end up well, though, because the groom's gone and spilled the communion wine on the bride. The pillowed rings go flying. And again, while the guests are aghast, the bride is smiling, keeping her cool.

Something tells me this kid is going to make a wad of dough someday.

Swirly

No, not that kind of swirly. I wasn't bullied in school, nor do I have a fetish.

(Side note: BLECH, Urban Dictionary contributors. Also? I'm a convinced that every word on Urban Dictionary has some kind of perverted alternate definition.)

Anyone who is unfamiliar with Harry Potter may want to skip the next couple of paragraphs. I have found that you are proudly, vehemently anti-Harry Potter. I group you with the anti-Seinfeld, anti-Titanic, anti-Gone with the Wind people. This attitude spans generations!


Anyway, there's a scene in one of the Harry Potter books/movies where Hermione breaks down Cho Chang's fragile emotional state to Ron and Harry. See, Cho's crushing on Harry, but it's complicated because a few months earlier, her previous boyfriend, Edward Cullen, was murdered by Voldemort. (IF SHE'D ONLY KNOWN HE WAS IMMORTAL!) Wait, I'm mixing popular YA series. Sorry. We're lucky that Katniss Everdeen and Ender Wiggin didn't make an appearance.

Once Hermione oncludes an exhaustive list, Ron exclaims that no one can possibly feel all of those things concurrently.

Yeah? Well, welcome to my head. I am constantly mentally listing the things I want to do, haven't done, am feeling, wanting, needing...

What will we have for dinner tonight? I hope my Dad's doctor's appointment went OK. I should call him. Need to tidy the house before friends come over tomorrow. Are we coordinating enough activities and play dates for our kids? I miss my mother. I have to send this report out today. I turned off my flat iron, right? I really need to find time to write this weekend, but I don't want to abandon my husband with the kids. Maybe I can stay up late tonight...

Does anyone else do this? And, it's not even like I give more weight to the more important stuff. "Are my weekend jeans clean" gets nearly equal attention as "I need to make sure the water bill got paid." Be STILL, unruly mind!

My Husband, the Encyclopedia of Pop Music

Last night, while watching 'Ringer' (stop judging), a commercial featuring Peter Frampton came on. My husband knows nearly nil about pop music, so I wanted to exploit this fact for my own entertainment...

Me (turning to Super Ninja): Can you name one song by Peter Frampton?

Super Ninja (narrowing his eyes, looking off in the distance): Something... like... Frampton comes alive?

Me: That was the name of the album. Can you name a song?

Super Ninja: Um...

Me: In the world of pop culture, that's like not being able to name an 'Indiana Jones' movie.

Super Ninja: Can you name one of his songs?

Me: 'Baby I Love Your Way'

Super Ninja: Okay, fine, but can you name another one of his songs?

Me: Sure, 'Show Me the Way.'

Super Ninja (trying to deflect to another topic): Who was in in 'The Monkees?' Was that Peter Tosh?

Me (horrified): No! Peter Tosh was a reggae star who was shot to death in his own home. You're thinking of Peter Tork.

Super Ninja: Oh, right. Peter Tork.

Me (beating my head against a coffee table until I pass out.)

My First Conversation with the Girl About Boys

"So, do you have any boyfriends in school?"

"Well, I like Sean."

"Oh, really? What do you like about Sean?"

"He has kind of a square head."

Watch out, all you square-headed fellas out there. My 5-year-old is on the prowl for you.

A Brief History of Tooth #9

One Fall evening when I was twenty years old, I was enjoying a late evening dinner at Hamburger Hamlet with some of my college friends. Sucking on a straw, I slurped Coke from a barrel-sized glass. Delicious. At some point, I released the straw from my clenched jaw. I tongued the back of one of my front teeth to knock (what I thought) was a little bit of food loose.

Ouch. Sharp!

It was not food. It was a splinter from the back of my front tooth.

How does that even happen? Sure, I can understand cavities in molars. I mean, there are pits and valleys back yonder, excellent nesting places for sugar and gunk that can weaken bone. But the centrals? They have no location where the necessary cocktail of bacteria and acid can find purchase.

Except in my teeth. Thanks again, Mom & Dad, for passing on teeth made of peanut brittle instead of bone.

Off to the dentist I went, where it was patched up and I received a friendly lecture about decreasing my cola/tea/coffee consumption. Right. Because college students generally don't mainline caffeine.

Cut to four years later. A distinct vertical line appeared, and grew darker. It was then that I learned that the presentability of your front teeth is directly proportional to your desire to show your face in public. Armed with my own dental insurance, courtesy of choosing gainful employment at a place that offered such a boon, I selected a new dentist who cleaned up the work of the previous dentist and replaced the filling. Actually, he pretty much spread the filling goo like butter over the back of my whole front tooth. Success!

Cut to twelve years after that. Again, I'm sitting at dinner, this time among my husband and three children, and I feel a hard crumb on my tongue. Except we were eating spaghetti, which does not at all have hard bits in it. Well, at least the way I prepare it. I don't know what you do in your kitchen.

I had a flashback to Hamburger Hamlet and knew that this would not be a good thing. Sure enough, close inspection revealed I had chipped my tooth. On spaghetti. Two days later I was in the dentist's chair, where the venerable Dr. Hickey was telling me that I would need crown for that tooth.

For those of you keeping track, this is now my third crown. And I have a gap where I will get an implant some day. At this rate I'll be in dentures by fifty.

Last week, I got the temporary crown. I requested to be jacked up with all the novocaine a body can bear, but it was still MIGHTY unpleasant to have someone up to his elbows in my face for an hour with a drill. I'm pretty sure ther's a scene from 'American Psycho' that unfolds that way.

From this experience I learned I may have an intolerance to latex being pressed up against my skin for extended periods of time. My face broke out with a constellation of pimples not seen since my adolescence. And the temporary crown? Well, it's temporary. Industry standard is to pick something that works for now, and not really to bother to have an absolute perfect match in color or sticky-outy-ness. The thing lines up so my bite isn't off, but is a micron or twenty thicker and pushes against the inside of my lip, making me feel like I constantly have peanut butter stuck to the front of my tooth. It's thicker in the back, too, so my speech is ganked up. The tip of my tongue is all, "Get out of the WAY!" when I am trying to use sibilant words, but it is fighting a losing battle with this squatter.

So, to re-cap, I am currently a lisping, pimpled, uno-horse-toothed woman. Fellas, fellas, don't bother lining up. I am married, after all.

All of this is to say I've been avoiding mirrors and pictures. I mean, I've never really been all moony over my reflection. But I'm thinking that this year's family portrait won't happen 'til after the holidays.

Yesterday, I went back to get the "you'll feel like you're suffocating but you really won't, I promise" impressions of my teeth done so that I can get a permanent crown. One that is custom-made for my face. Off-the-rack teeth don't work for me. Pants don't either, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised by this.

Anyway, to take the impression, the dentist had to remove the temporary crown. Between sessions of having softball sized clumps of wax jammed in my face, my tongue went on an exploratory mission to see what was left of my original tooth, my pal since I was six years old. Aw, it was just a little niblet of a thing. I was happy just having touched it, imagining a cheery little thing huddled under the crown. King Baby Tooth.

You can understand, then, my chagrin when Dr. Hickey returned with a disturbing rack of fake teeth, each one individually skewered and standing at attention. He grabbed one and positioned in my face, judging the color comparison. I was reminded of my mother-in-law in Sherwin-Williams, holding up swatches and going back for another one, convinced that they aren't quite right.

Dr. Hickey asked me if I wanted to pick up the hand mirror from among his implements and look at the tooth/color he selected. I wanted to say, "No." But, the aesthete in me decided I should probably take a gander.

Oh. my. God. I looked like a hillbilly vampire. My front tooth was GONE, and was replaced with this dumb little cone of a tooth which will serve as the tang for the crown.

I looked for about six seconds before I told my dentist that the choice was a good one. The temporary crown doesn't come in until mid-December, and I'm sure it will become fodder for a new post.

Why?

Because for the past couple of years I've been kicking around the idea of whitening my teeth. Here's the formula for making that decision:

Natural shade of butter + (coffee + red wine) * a lot = blecko color teeth.

When one of your front teeth is getting replaced, though, the time for making that decision is NOW. You can't really whiten a crown. So, the plan is to order the crown a couple of shades lighter, then whiten the real teeth until they match.

This plan can't go wrong, can it? Oh, wait, of COURSE it can. I'm pretty sure my teeth are going to end up looking like this:

Things that Should Be Insurance Against a Sleepover/Hookup

This morning I dropped my daughter off at Pre-K and witnessed someone learning a life lesson.

Background: the Girl's Pre-K is on a college campus. She's not a wunderkind or anything like that, though I, of course, think she's super. The program is open to anyone, but primarily serves the children of faculty, staff, and students.

Anyway, whle my daughter was happily skipping to school, lunch swinging at her side, I saw Sailor Moon trudging uphill toward a dorm. Now, I am definitely making an assumption here, but I have to imagine that this college student did not think, "You know what would brighten up my classes today? Wearing a Sailor Moon outfit!"

Nope.

My guess is that somebody got some last night. So, here's my public service announcement: ladies, get ur freak on. But, if you are dressed as a Manga character, go HOME after the hookup, under the cover of darkness.

I Don't Know How I Did This

To my thumb. It is a pulsating, injured digit. As a result of wine. Not in a deeply dramatic way. I didn't pitch a snifter at someone and stab myself with a passionate shard. Nope. I somehow managed to place my ape thumb in exactly the worst spot possible on my ballerina-style corkscrew. When I pushed the arms down to extirpate the cork, my thumbskin got all squished in the gears.

Great.

I've told you I make my living pounding a keyboard, right? So, work should be AWESOME tomorrow.